


Like the Healing Amidst the Pain

by serendipitysnape



Series: In the Stillness of Memory [3]
Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipitysnape/pseuds/serendipitysnape
Summary: Post - Sword and Pen One-Shots between Santi and the kidsIn which Thomas finally breaks apart, and Santi is there to help him put the pieces back together.Fair warning, the memory of Rome is not at all colored with cookies and hot apple cider. In this series, all of the kids are each dealing with their post-Morgan angst in their own way. For Thomas, the path to healing is laden with nightmares and self-harm, but Santi has already walked it and conquered it once before.
Relationships: Niccolo Santi & Thomas Schreiber, Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Series: In the Stillness of Memory [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1517735
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I realized after finishing this fic that Chapter 1 is vaguely reminiscent of Mazeem's brilliant one-shot, "Night of the Unexpected." (It you haven't read it yet then definitely go and read it because its amazing!) But please consider this story as just another look at Thomas's post-Rome trauma recovery that begins (as most of mine do) with a knock at the door, and an overflow of angst.

The knock at the door was so faint that at first Santi thought he was imagining it. The sound came again, and before standing up Nic glanced at the hour. Half past midnight. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it were his love at the door, Wolfe wasn’t quite so good at keeping track of his keys these days. But the soft, almost hesitant knock was not one that Santi was used to hearing. These days, any form of unknown had either man on edge, and it didn’t help that Nic had been sitting at the table completing his weekly weapons assessment.

“Hold on!” Nic called out, reaching for something to cover his dismantled firearm with and settling on a thin cotton table cloth. He paused a moment, taking another second to study the armory spread over the surface of their kitchen table. Santi couldn’t help himself from slipping one of his flat throwing knives back into his boot, it certainly wouldn’t do for the Lord Commander of the High Garda to be caught unawares.

Nic pulled the door open and a blonde haired, blue-eyed German giant nearly fell right into his arms. There was a tumble of arms and legs and an uncomfortable moment when Santi nearly slipped his boot knife between the young mans ribs, but within a few seconds both men had righted themselves.

“Sorry Sir.” The muttered apology was more of an after-thought than anything else, but the fact that Thomas had been leaning against the door was enough to make Nic more than a bit nervous. Nic had felt the boys skin when he had landed on him, and enough cold had seeped into him that he must have been standing out there for quite some time before he had managed to work up the courage to come in.

“No harm done, Thomas. What can I do for you?” Nic smiled in a way that was meant to be warm and welcoming, but probably showed far too much teeth. The boy flushed again, looking as though he may have forgotten why he had been standing outside of Nic’s front door at such a late hour.

“I-I, erm, that is to say, Sir, um— I was working on a project, and I, well I just couldn’t get the, so I thought, maybe—“

The brittle way the boy was holding himself was all too familiar to Nic, one arm wrapped around his middle and the other nervously worrying the fabric of his shirt back and forth. “Thomas, when was the last time you slept?” The bags under his eyes could house an army of automata.

“Slept?” Thomas simply stared back at Nic in confusion.

“Yes Schreiber, sleep. A restorative process for the brain and mind.” _Dios,_ Nic swore under his breath, he was sounding more and more like Wolfe with each passing day, although he’d deny it if Christopher ever tried to bring it up.

Thomas didn’t respond.

“I see.” Nic sighed, another duckling that required a bit of corralling by him. “Come on then, I’ll put on tea.”

Thomas sat down heavily at the kitchen table, and the sight reminded Santi that their kitchen table had gotten quite a bit more use lately than usual. And as it was rather nice, Nic hoped that the string of visitors would continue. If anyone had told Nic that he would come to love the act of brewing tea, he would have called them a drunkard and then flattened them at arm wrestling before taking all of their cash. Truth was, he did enjoy it. After Wolfe had returned from Rome the only thing that had made any difference had been the mint tea which helped to curb the nausea and settle his anxiety (both of their anxiety if he was being honest). Santi wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of the mug, the soothing smell, or the tea itself, but he was a smart man and he would take whatever help he could find, wherever he could get it.

When Thomas tried to lay his head down against the table Santi yelled a warning in Italian, having already forgotten the weapons that lay sharp and ready beneath the thin kitchen cloth he had thrown over it. The sound startled the boy so badly that he whimpered a bit, and the thin, hollow sound made Nic more than a bit concerned that Wolfe was not here to see what the boy’s trouble was. Against his better judgement Santi found himself reaching out a hand but pulled it back before he could pat the boy on the shoulder. Fuck, Nic was so out of his element here. At least with Glain there had been fighting and wagering and the all-around humiliating of the Spanish bastards, and Jess had been, well, Jess. But this. Nic put down the hot mug of tea just far away enough that Thomas wouldn’t accidentally knock it over and sat across from him in the chair.

“Weapons inventory.” Santi waved his hand over the table and gestured loosely, hoping that the words would be sufficient explanation for his sharpness. Thomas just stared at him, barely moving, making no outward indication that he had even understood what Nic was saying. Christopher got like this sometimes, when the memories were so bad that he lost himself somewhere inside of them. Nic could be yelling his name and the only response his love could give would be a blank stare with a hollow darkness behind his eyes. There were times when the darkness was so bad that Nic found himself wondering what he would do with himself if Chris never came back from wherever he went in his mind. He clenched the fist that lay against his thigh beneath the table, Thomas could not be allowed to lose his sanity, not a mind like his. Or, if he was being honest, not a heart like his.

Of all of the children, Thomas was probably the one that Nic understood least and most of all. Least because Nic knew that he could not compete with the brilliance that resided inside the confines of the boy’s brain, nor would he want to. But most of all because Thomas was the most like Christopher. He hadn’t thought of it before now, and really he wasn’t all that sure why he hadn’t, but when the Lord Commander of the High Garda looked at Scholar Schreiber he saw an asset to protect, and the brilliant Scholar who would one day change the history of the Great Library. When Nic Santi looked at him, the boy looked far too much like a younger version of the bright-eyed, over-eager young scholar that he had fallen in love with, the scholar that Christopher Wolfe had been before Rome had swallowed him up.

“I’m sorry, Schreiber, he’s not here.” Santi tried to say the words as calmly and comfortingly as he could.

“What?” The words were flat and empty-like, but the look in Thomas’s eyes spoke volumes.

“You mentioned a project you needed help on, but Scholar Wolfe hasn’t returned from the library yet.” Nic looked at the door as though if they both stared at it long enough Wolfe would walk through it and save them both from the awkwardness of the moment. He didn’t.

Thomas twitched sharply at the word library. Nic recognized his mistake right away, but by the time he began to berate himself for using such a strong trigger in casual conversation, he was already too late to stop half the cup of boiling tea from splashing over and drenching the long cotton sleeves of the boy’s shirt. His hand spasmed again, and Nic was out of his chair and ripping the sodden fabric away before the burns could bubble. Before he had a moment to stop and think Nic had dragged Thomas to their kitchen sink and was shoving their arms beneath the cool water.

Thomas didn’t make a sound, but Nic could feel him trembling where he was pressed up against him.

“Keep breathing Schreiber, you’re gonna be ok.” Nic thought of all the things he could say, but none of them seemed right for the moment. He considered simply asking Thomas why he had truly come to their rooms in the middle of the night, but he didn’t want him to feel unwelcome. Instead, he settled for, “So, how does that feel?”

“Thank you, Sir.” Thomas seemed to come back to himself at the sound of Santi’s voice, but with the awareness came his attempt to pull his arm out of Santi’s firm grasp.

“Not an answer, Schreiber. How does it feel? We may need to message a medica.” Nic would have had to have been blind, deaf and dumb to miss the look of pure terror on the boy’s face. 

“Ok, ok,” Nic gentled softly, reminding himself to tread lightly here, “we’ll figure it out. I should have enough gauze to treat the burn, let me just get you back to the table.” He led both of them back to the table, cleared a place to lay Thomas’s arm, the burned, puckered skin a sharp contrast against the stark white cloth. Santi rubbed his own skin absently, tracing the scars the greek fire had mercilessly left behind. “Don’t worry, you are safe here. Anything or anyone that attempts to get through that door will have to get through me first. Ok?” The man that sat at his table was nearly larger than Nic himself, and most certainly wider than Nic, but the eyes that stared back at him woefully belonged to a child whose innocence had just been stripped away. Nic had to swallow to regain a bit of his own control, this was simply too close to home. “Let me get the gauze, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Nic was barely gone for a moment when he heard the gasp from the kitchen, followed by a sharp, thin, cry. Dropping the handful of gauze on the floor he raced back into the room and felt his heart stop at the sight. His recently sharpened armory was no longer covered by the tablecloth he had thrown over it. One of his _shuriken,_ the Japanese throwing stars that had been a gift from Wolfe for his last birthday, lay embedded in the wood floor beneath the dining table. Blood. There was blood, red and bright. It was everywhere, and Nic barely saw anything else. Bile rose in his stomach but he forced it down. This is not Christopher’s blood. Nic repeated it to himself like a chant. Christopher is safe. Christopher is not hurt right now.

But Thomas is. 

Thomas. One of Wolfe’s chosen ducklings which therefore made the boy one of Nic’s. And Nic was out of his element here, but he was trying. And Thomas was hurt. And there was so. much. blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is not Christopher’s blood. Nic repeated it to himself like a chant. Christopher is safe. Christopher is not hurt right now. But Thomas is. Thomas. One of Wolfe’s chosen ducklings which therefore made the boy one of Nic’s. And Nic was out of his element here, but he was trying. And Thomas was hurt. And there was so. much. blood._

“Dammit Schreiber!” Once he was able to swallow the rising nausea, Nic assessed the situation with expert eyes. His gaze sought out Thomas’s trembling form, lingering on the way the large boy was folded in on himself, his left arm clenched tight against his chest. In a few steps Nic was beside him, reaching out to grasp him by the shoulder, but Thomas pulled away with a gasp and a low cry that made Nic move back.

“Thomas, Thomas it’s Santi, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?” Nic could see the blood soaking the thin fabric of the boy’s shirt, and it took everything inside of him not to simply reach out to stem the bleeding but he didn’t want to see Thomas devolve any further. “Schreiber listen to me. No matter what your mind may tell you, you are not in Rome. You are in my quarters. Scholar Wolfe’s and mine. I’m right here with you. It’s Captain Santi. I’m here. You are safe now. They can’t hurt you anymore.” The words tumbled out low and urgent, and he interspersed them with soothing noises as though he was talking to a wounded animal. And wasn’t he, after all?

Thomas lifted his head and stared up at Nic blankly, his blue eyes looked so dark and sunken against the paleness of skin that was devoid of any healthy glow.

“Sorry.” He said flatly, in a way that didn’t seem very sorry at all.

“It’s ok Thomas, will you let me wrap your arm? I’m here with you. This is real. You are safe in our quarters.” The blood was dripping now, falling from where it was pooling at the bottom of the boy’s elbow to land in splashes on his pants and Santi’s table cloth. Nic didn’t need medica credentials to know that it was too much blood, so when he saw him begin to sway Nic moved fast to slide Thomas out of his chair and down to the ground before he passed out. It was a near enough thing though.

As soon as Thomas’s eyes rolled back in his head Santi let out a string of Italian curses that would have made any respectable man blush. Santi did his best to keep Thomas’s right hand off of the dirty kitchen floor, but right now the burned, blistered skin was the least of his worries. The thin sleeve of the boy’s left arm was so soaked in blood that it clung tight to his pale flesh as if painted on. Santi steeled his stomach and began to cut the material away from the torn skin. He wanted to work fast before Thomas came to, but his first priority was assessing the wound and stopping the bleeding. Removing the sleeve revealed skin that had been scored from elbow to wrist, and Nic couldn’t stop the hiss that escaped him when he realized that beneath today’s bleeding lacerations lay other, older scars. Thomas could not continue like this, he would speak to Wolfe, something needed to be done. His heart was pounding so hard that Nic could feel his own blood pulsing inside of him in an uneven metronome. If he focused on the boy’s face Nic was distracted enough to retain his own faculties, it wouldn’t do for both of them to be suffocated by memories of Rome.

A bowl of warm water and a dish towel was sufficient to wipe the blood from Thomas’s arm, but when Nic pressed the warm, wet cloth to the torn skin the boy began to stir.

“Mrmph —“ The first string of words out of his mouth was too soft and garbled to be at all intelligible. Nic had a suspicion that they may have even been mostly German.

“It’s ok now Thomas,” Santi leaned over so he would see who was keeping that firm pressure over his forearm. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to speak.”

Thomas had opened his eyes so wide that it made the blue orbs bulge outward, and he twisted a bit in an unsuccessful attempt to tug his arm out from beneath Santi’s grasp. “I…” He tried again to pull away, but Santi held fast to his arm. “I just needed to feel something. Anything. I needed to know that this was real. That the pain was real, that this wasn’t a dream.”

Santi could feel Thomas’s muscles tighten and clench, shivers running through his entire body as he stared up at Santi with humiliated, terror-filled eyes. This was a fear with which Santi was well acquainted. “No Son,” Nic didn’t look away. Instead, he grabbed Thomas’s hand and held it tightly between his own, “This is real,” he squeezed lightly, the pressure indicating his presence, “You are not in Rome any longer. You are safe in our quarters. You are safe here.”

Tears began to gather at the corners of Thomas’s eyes, and Nic could feel him hang onto his hand for all he was worth. Santi made shushing noises as he let the boy weep quietly, letting go of the dish towel to smooth matted hair off of the boy’s forehead with his free hand. When the flood of tears began to slow and then stop, Nic busied himself by continuing to stroke the top of Thomas’s head comfortingly. The repetitive motion seemed soothing for both of them, and it kept Nic’s mind off of the hardness of the floor. It angered Santi that his body appeared to be informing him that he was increasing in age. Time was that he could have squatted on the cool tile floor for hours, but at this point he wasn’t sure how much time had passed and he could feel the cold seeping into his stiffening joints.

“Thomas, can you try to sit up?” 

It it was at all possible for the boy to look even more pathetic, Thomas stared up at him from beneath wet lashes looking more like a sad, wet, puppy dog than a boy. “Ok,” his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve got you.” Nic stood up first, surprising himself a bit with his own grace, and stubbornly ignoring the crack his bones made when he straightened out his back. He heaved Thomas to his feet, guiding him to sit on the couch before he could fall down again. “I must bind your wounds now, so they can heal. Let me go get the gauze.” Thomas made a low sound that Nic chose to take as affirmation, but that didn’t stop him from surveying the room for additional danger before returning to the kitchen.

As soon as he was out of sight, Thomas began to whimper. So quietly that Nic wasn’t even sure that he knew he was doing it. He could picture him curling in on himself, picture him opening up the cuts and bleeding out, and in his mind the boy on his couch was not not a hulking, pale-skinned, German giant, but a thin, long-limbed scholar with a sharp tongue and a brain to match. Dammit, these thoughts wouldn’t help anyone, he needed Wolfe. Nic needed to hold Christopher in his arms, stroke his back, his hair, his face, he needed to smell that reassuring scent that was Christopher and nothing else. More than anything, Nic needed to be inside of him, holding him, stroking him, giving himself to him, reassuring himself that Chris was home, that he was safe, that Rome was behind them. It felt like he was loosing his fucking mind.

Nic reached for his codex, knowing that his love probably wouldn’t even see the message until he closed whatever book or dusty manuscript he was reading through at the moment. “Come home now.” The pen shook a bit, but Santi didn’t see how he could be any clearer. As an after thought he grasped the stylus and scratched out a few more words, “I need you.” Satisfied, he quickly reached down and pulled the _shuriken_ from its place in the floor. The blood had dried on it by now, dark and red, and the sight made Santi a bit nauseous.

“Just keep breathing out there Schreiber!” Nic smiled darkly, reminding himself to take his own advice. He popped his head back out the door and was reassured to see Thomas in the same spot on the couch as when he had left him. Nic grabbed the gauze, antiseptic, a thermos of tea, and some plain crackers before hurrying back into the living room, he knew that he would have to clean the blood up before Wolfe came home, but for now the blonde boy on his couch was his priority. “Thomas, I’m going to clean and bandage your wounds now, ok?” Nic reached out to gently grab the boy’s arm, and Thomas flinched, hard. Nic knew that sometimes kindness was hardest to stomach. “Schreiber, it’s Santi. Do you feel my hands?” Nic ran his thumb gently over the soft skin of Thomas’s palm. “I just want to make sure that you don’t catch an infection.” The boy stilled, still shivering slightly.

“Have I ever told you the story of Scholar Wolfe and I as postulants? The time when we snuck into the library exhibit on Heron?” Thomas looked up at him, a thin vein of interest lightening his eyes. The sight made Nic chuckle. He seized the opportunity to pull both arms forward and prepare the cleaning solution. “Yes, I was a young, enthusiastic recruit, and all I wanted, all I had ever wanted was to be a part of the High Garda. But somehow, your scholar Wolfe, not a scholar yet mind you, convinced me that what I truly desired was to sneak past the posted Garda troops and accompany him to the exhibit after hours.” Santi began winding the gauze around the boy’s burned forearm, forcing himself not to wince when one of the blisters threatened to open. He swallowed with false bravado, “We entered the public exhibit during the day, and got the great idea to hide in the bathroom after closing. I can still remember the two of us crammed into the bathroom stalls with our knees up around our shoulders, our hearts racing. I was so sure that we would be discovered and thrown out of the program, but Scholar Wolfe made sure that I was,” Nic had to pause as his face flooded with warmth. He coughed, “Suitably distracted.” It simply wouldn’t be a good idea to explain to one of the children exactly how Wolfe had managed to distract him. Thomas’s voice brought him back to the present.

“But what about the exhibit? What parts of Heron’s research was on display? Did you get to touch any of it?”

Santi stared down at Thomas ruefully and tried not to laugh. Here he was recanting a story of how he and Chris had nearly been caught committing scandalous acts after hours in a mens toilet and here was Thomas, questioning him on the contents of the library exhibit. Where was Dario when you needed him? Nic sighed.

“Eventually we did make it to the exhibit and I’ll admit that it was far more interesting than I thought it would be. To be honest, I enjoyed watching Wolfe study the exhibit more than the exhibit itself, so you’ll have to ask him for details on the contents.” 

Thomas stared up at him with interest, “But what of the steam engine? Or the wind-powered organ?” He looked so hopeful that Santi wondered if he should have told him a different memory instead. He’d have to ask Chris to mention it to him when the boy was feeling better. Nic tied the last of the bandages and patted Thomas on the arm.

“All done.”

“Already?” Thomas looked down at his arms and back to Nic seeming unable to comprehend what had happened.

“I think its time for you to try and get some sleep Thomas.”

“I, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Nic watched the boy curl in on himself, unable to look him in the eyes.

“Thomas, your body needs to rest.” He said it mildly, but Nic tried to make his voice as firm and comforting as possible.

“I can’t.” Thomas said the words in a whisper, but Nic heard them from his place near the boy’s knees on the floor.

“And why can’t you? It’s obvious to me that your body is desperate for sleep. You will feel so much better if you sleep, I promise you.” Nic stood up and moved the rest of the supplies out of the way before taking a sip of his own tea, though it was no longer piping hot.

“I can’t.” Thomas sounded defeated. “I can’t sleep. I’m afraid.”

“I see,” said Nic, and truly he did see. He remembered every night after Christopher had returned. Every night that his love had woken up screaming and crying from nightmares that he would be too scared to recant to Nic. He remembered the nights that Chris had cried so hard that he had cried himself sick, nights where the nightmares made him too fearful to even lay in Nic’s arms, nights when Nic settled for a vigil next to their bed. And the worst, nights when Chris did not awaken, and Nic was forced to lay there beside him, helpless to ease his pain, helpless to do anything but listen to the raw, uncensored words that detailed the torture Christopher had survived.

“Thomas,” Santi shifted himself until he was kneeling between the boy’s legs. He placed both palms flat on the tops of his thighs and pushed gently, until he was wedged up against him. Nic could feel him trembling. Tread carefully, he reminded himself, too much and you could break this brilliant, beautiful, mind. “Thomas, will you trust me? Will you let me help you?”

Thomas stared back quietly, still shivering, his eyes unreadable. Nic reached out slowly, giving the boy time to pull away, and he cupped Thomas’s cheek gently. “_Cucciolo,_ Let me help you. _Amore,_ You are safe with me.”

Thomas made a quiet noise that may have been assent.

“Come.” Nic stood up and held out a hand, smiling warmly when the boy grabbed it. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Nic drew him up to his feet carefully, bracing him when Thomas began to sway. “Come.” He led him to the bedroom, making soothing noises when he began to whimper again. “You are safe. I’m here. _Passerotto,_ I am here.”

Taking a closer look at Thomas’s blood-stained, ripped shirt, the garment did not look to be worth saving. Still making low, shushing noises, Santi lifted the bottom of the shirt and slowly drew the material up and up and up over Thomas’s head. There was a little resistance, and then none. “Stay,” Santi said, as though Thomas truly was a puppy dog. Striding over to his own armoire he pulled out one of the overlarge shirts that he saved for Christopher, for the nights when he was off on assignment and couldn’t comfort his lover in person. He slipped the soft, worn material over the boy’s head and couldn’t suppress a smile when he watched Thomas snuggle into it.

When Nic went to remove the boy’s belt, he thanked his God and all of Wolfe’s that his reflexes were still as swift as ever. The sound that Thomas made was one that Nic would have a hard time removing from his head.

“Sorry!” Thomas gasped, his face white and devoid of all color. His eyes were wild, terror making his limbs tremble and twitch. “Sorry!”

“It’s ok,” Santi took a breath and stepped right back up into his personal space, running his hands up and down over his shoulders. “It’s ok. I’m not going to hurt you. You can trust me.” It nauseated him to think of how Rome had changed the child in front of him. And yes, even though Thomas was a man, he still thought of him as a child, and not just because Wolfe had somehow gone ahead and adopted all six of his infuriating postulants. Nic found himself wanting to pour into this bright-eyed boy, to help him not just survive all that he had suffered in Rome. No, he wanted to watch him conquer it! To prove that he was stronger than those who had striven to break him. Lord Commander Niccolo Santi protected his own, and God only knew that he wanted nothing more than to hunt down the ones who had hurt Thomas and Christopher.

This time Nic moved more slowly, he told Thomas what he was going to do before doing it. “I’m going to unbuckle your belt now, you are safe. I’m going to help you get out of your pants, its just me, amore. Nobody will hurt you while I am here.” His own mother had called him _Cucciolo,_ little cub, and _Passerotto,_ little sparrow, said of one who is learning to fly. “Lift your foot now, yes, good boy and now the other one.” Nic poured out the terms of endearment without hesitation, promising himself internally that nothing would keep him from teaching Thomas to spread his wings again.

Thomas stood shaking as he stood beside the bed in nothing but his boxers and Santi’s overlarge shirt, and he was so terrified that he didn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed by Santi’s ministrations. “Come,” Nic folded back the bed coverings and drew the boy towards him. Thomas lay back stiffly, sinking into the the mattress. His eyes drifted closed for a minute as he inhaled, and the sight made Nic smirk. Yes, the bed smelled like him and Wolfe. Somehow, when he was a child, the safest place in the world had always seemed to be the bed that his parents shared, and he hoped that Thomas could capture the same safety now.

“Close your eyes,” Nic piled the blanket loosely around him, not wanting the boy to feel trapped in any way. “I will sit here with you while you sleep. Don’t be afraid, if you have a nightmare I will be right here. You are safe.”

Thomas sighed, taking a deep breath and staring up at Nic with eyes that were big, and wide, and trusting. And when they drifted shut, Nic felt a weight that he didn’t know that he was carrying slip from his shoulders. “Sleep, little sparrow, _e sogni d’oro,_ and dream sweet dreams.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thomas sighed, taking a deep breath and staring up at Nic with eyes that were big, and wide, and trusting. And when they drifted shut, Nic felt a weight that he didn’t know that he was carrying slip from his shoulders. “Sleep, little sparrow, e sogni d’oro, and dream sweet dreams.”_

Scholar Christopher Wolfe rubbed a shaking hand over his face and rolled his shoulders back, the cramp in his forearm just one sign that he had overtaxed himself yet again. Nic was not going to be happy. But, he reasoned, if he arrived home with a suitable reward, perhaps he could coax his lover into a more pleasant mood.

His codex buzzed, the subtle sound echoing through his small corner of the library, and Wolfe reached for it.

COME HOME NOW.

The message glared up at him from the page, angry and accusing, and Wolfe felt the muscles in his back stiffen. Before his conscious mind knew what he was doing, the majority of his research was quickly stuffed into the pocket of his messenger bag and his supplies sealed. Something was not right. He looked at the clock, and his watch told him that the hour was barely a quarter past one. These days that was hardly surprising, and certainly not reason enough for Nic to send a message like this. The capitol letters seemed to scream so loudly that when the codex buzzed again Wolfe jumped, his hand twitching toward a weapon that no longer hung within reach.

I NEED YOU.

He was sure now. Wolfe raced out the front doors, barely nodding at the high garda who called out a greeting as he passed by. Nic was in trouble. The words had been scribbled hastily, with none of the sweeping curves and sloping flourishes that Wolf had come to expect when he and Santi conversed. Stiff, jilted letters, quickly penned.

It seemed as though his feet would not cooperate, and with each step Wolfe wondered if he was already too late. Too late for what? Logic told him that if the worst had happened, there was nothing Christopher could do anyway to fend off whatever enemy had bested his more than capable soldier. And yet against his own mind and better judgement Wolfe felt his legs trembling as his sprinted the last few steps toward the quarters that he and Santi shared. 

One lock clicked open. Then two. Then three. His fingers shook, twitching so bad that he was barely able to turn the final key enough to get himself in the front door. A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and his hamstrings protested as he stumbled in.

“Nic? NIC?”

His nose burned with the acrid smell of a scent he knew all too well. Panic filled him. Wolfe fell forward, eyes searching for someone who didn’t seem to be present. Then he saw the blood and he couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t inhale, couldn’t look away. Nic’s weapons were laid out across the table, and the shuriken embedded in the ground below. He fell to his knees heavily, trying to brace himself against the wooden floorboards and failing as Wolfe felt his stomach heave once, then twice as the bile rose in his throat. He was too late. They had him now. Nick had been taken. Chris was too late. The muscles in his limbs started twitching and a moan rose in his throat before he realized he had made a sound.

“Christopher?”

A familiar sound penetrated the haze of his grief.

“Chris?”

It was a voice.

“My love?”

Wolfe knew that voice. He forced himself to open his eyes, pain causing his vision to waver unreliably. The image of his lover stood in front of him, but Wolfe knew that it was not Nic. Before him stood a ghost, a mirage. Christopher Wolfe had played this game before. They would not best him. He would pretend that nobody was there.

“Oh fuck!” The illusion Nic-that-was-not-really-Nic squatted down next to him and grabbed his face with both hands. It was saying something, but Wolfe tuned him out. Whoever had gotten Santi might come for him next, he would have to focus harder then he had ever focused before. This time Wolfe could not give away even a single shred of information. He had the children to think of now.

Arms tugged him to his feet and Wolfe went willingly, no sense fighting it. The hands patted him down all over, and Wolfe let himself be half carried and half dragged forward. He was not here. He was no longer inhabiting the body that they called Christopher Wolfe. He was somewhere else. He was in the library with Nic. He was wrapped in Nic’s arms. He was safe, far far away.

“Christopher, my love. I’m going to need you to look at me, okay? Look at me now. Try and focus on my voice. Can you do that for me darling?”

The world was spinning, splintering. The bad people had Nic’s voice and the sound reverberated through Wolfe’s head.

“You are safe. I love you. I am here.”

Don’t fall for their tricks. Nic was gone. Someone had taken him. They had replaced him with not-Nic. Wolfe’s stomach turned over again. He felt his hands go numb. That happened sometimes when the remembering got bad. Something tickled the underside of his nose, and a sneeze rose up in him, once, twice, three times. Mint. A mint sprig. The smell of home. Not-Nic would not know about the mint.

“There we go. Deep breaths Chris. Nice and slow.”

The mint was strong and sharp as it filled his nostrils, and Wolfe could feel the fresh, crisp scent travel upwards and cool the back of his throat. Nic. He kept his eyes clenched tight and took another breath. It made his heart ache to admit it, but safety smelled like mint tea, like Nic.

“I’m sorry my love, I didn’t have time to clean up the blood. You are safe. I am here.”

Something solid trembled against him and Wolfe risked cracking his eyes open just slightly. He was afraid to let himself hope. A whimper started in his chest, the sound rising in his throat as the pressure beneath his breastbone swelled.

“Oh Chris.”

A pair of lips pressed forward and swallowed the sounds of his whimpering. Wolfe tasted salt. A strong, firm tongue swept against his own and two large hands pulled him into a hard, muscled body. Nic. Wolfe inhaled, distracted by the depth of the kiss, the passion it suggested, the pain it masked. It was Santi. The man who held him now was no imposter, no identity thief, he was Wolfe’s heart, safe and well. Alive and breathing. No mirage could replicate the smell and taste that was distinctly Nic. Wolfe pulled away and opened his eyes, it was Nic who stared back at him. Niccolo Santi. Lord Commander of the High Garda. Niccolo Santi, his beloved. Niccolo Santi, alive, well, and safely standing in the kitchen of the home they shared, of the house they had built together.

Wolfe reached forward, unwilling to leave the safety and sanctuary of Santi’s arms. He took a deep breath, then another, and a few more after that. He could feel their heartbeats evening out.

“I’m sorry Christopher.”

The exhale was quiet, but Wolfe heard the words clearly enough.

“I should have cleaned up before I sent you the codex message.”

In his fear, Wolfe had forgotten all about the message. “Are you alright Nic?” When the other man paused too long without answering, Wolfe pulled back to study him critically. “What’s wrong? Are you injured? Where did the blood come from?” If Wolfe didn’t know better he would have said that his brave, fearless partner looked rather flustered.

“He,” Nic swallowed before whispering softly, “he’s in there.” 

Wolfe was moving toward their bedroom even before he was aware that he had taken a step. There were only three males that Santi would have allowed to enter their private bedroom, and if one of the children were here, Wolfe now understood why Santi had asked him to return home immediately.

Thomas.

The large boy lay huddled in the center of their bed, knees tucked up against his chest, and all of his lengthly limbs pulled into Nic’s t-shirt like a giant turtle. The two men exchanged a look, and Wolfe stepped forward with a sigh. His muscles were still spasming, and his chest still felt too-tight, but it appeared as though the worst of his panic attack had passed.

Thomas.

Wolfe had meant to do a better job at keeping an eye on the boy, and quite honestly he had anticipated the night terrors weeks ago. What Chris hadn’t accounted for was the timing, fear was funny like that. This fear was fear that he knew. Fear that he, Christopher Wolfe, was well acquainted with. Fear that carried the stink of pain with it, the smell that threatened to linger under the planes of his skin and never wash off. The knot between his shoulders loosened just slightly. He exhaled. This pain was pain that Wolfe knew how best to combat. Yes, it was good that Santi had messaged him, good that he had come home.

A few silent gestures served as sufficient communication for Nic to see what he wanted, and while Wolfe stripped off his now dirty robes and donned a clean sleep shirt with shaking fingers, Nic crawled into bed beside Thomas. Though Christopher Wolfe was a man of simple pleasures and certainly not a man of frivolous luxury, the purchase of their large, sturdy bed was one that Chris had made without a single moment of guilt or regret. Large enough to sleep 3-4, and built to hold over 750lbs (specifications that only Dario would be interested in confirming), there was more than enough room for the three of them to share.

Thomas stirred a little when Nic lay down, stopping when Nic smoothed his hair back to lay a cool hand on his brow. The sight made Wolfe’s heart twinge. What a surprising turn his life had taken, when just a short time ago Chris had laid awake at night wondering if any of them would survive. He stepped into his sleep pants, pulling the drawstring taut with a grimace. But they all hadn’t made it, had they. One of his ducklings had taken her own path to freedom, and it was a path that none of the others could ever hope to comprehend, let alone condone. A path that none of them could follow. 

Wolfe sighed. The truth was, she was dead. Morgan was dead, and they were alive. Morgan was dead, and Thomas had been tortured. Morgan was dead and Thomas had been tortured until that pure joyful spirit had fled out of him, but somehow, he was still alive. They were still alive.

“My love?”

Nic’s voice pierced through the haze in his head, but another sound served as a far more effective deterrent. 

“Please.” The voice that emerged from the boy in his bed was soft and pleading. “Please.” A bit more than a whisper now, with none of the confidence or curiosity they usually associated with his incredible mind. Thomas flinched. Hard. “I’ll be good. I promise. Please don’t hurt me again. I’ll be good!” The sound was a dagger in Wolfe’s heart, the pain rising with nausea in the pit of his stomach.

“Thomas, wake up, you are safe now.” Nic laid his arm on the trembling boy and Wolfe forced himself to sit on the edge of the bed. It was too close to home. Too much. Perhaps he couldn’t do it after all.

Thomas keened. Tears rolled from his eyes in large droplets, his chest heaving with the unearthly sound. 

“Schreiber!” 

All of the children responded to that particular scholar tone, and Thomas was no different. Even if his voice hadn’t been quite as firm as usual, the effect was the same.

“Sir?” 

Thomas sat upright in the bed, still heaving from exertion and limbs flailing wild enough that Santi rolled over to avoid a blow to the eye. Christopher reached out slowly, ignoring the way Thomas had pulled back with a moan.

“Schreiber you are safe. You are in our bed, Niccolo’s and mine. Nothing, and I mean nothing can hurt you as long as you are here with us.” He leaned in until he was able to grasp the young man’s face with his hands, ignoring the whimpering which had now risen to a fever pitch. “Do you hear me? You are safe here Thomas. It’s time for you to rest now, we will keep you safe.” Thomas looked around in confusion, trying and failing to pull his face from Wolfe’s firm grasp. Wolfe saw the moment when the boy realized that he had just awoken from what Nic would crudely refer to as a “piss-producing” nightmare, while sandwiched between the two of them, in their bed.

“I-I, I.”

He tried to get up, but Wolfe’s presence on the edge of the bed made it impossible for Thomas to get off without bowling Chris over in the process. 

“No. You will stay here with us for the rest of the night. And you will sleep. Do you understand me?”

A pair of wide, glassy eyes stared back at him, tears just waiting to creep down silently over cheeks that were now flushed red with shame. Santi sat up with a groan of protest, reaching for a dry t-shirt. 

“Here Thomas, let me help you put this on.”

Chris watched Nic gently lift the edges of the sweat-soaked t-shirt up over Thomas’s head and smooth the clean, dry cloth down over his skin with careful, deliberate strokes. Santi had done the same for him more times than he could count. Nic pushed Thomas back down against the bed and turned to Chris with a smile before reassuring the boy quietly.

“It does get better son. Even when you think you can’t make it one more moment, it does get better.”

Wolfe saw the bandages around Thomas’s wrists, and shivered, before pulling his own aching limbs fully onto the bed and laying back against the softness of the sheets. A large hand bumped against his beneath the covers, seeking until it finally landed upon his own, trembling fingers tangling with his long, ink-stained digits. Chris could hear Nic making himself comfortable on the other side of the bed.

Christopher Wolfe lay in the dark for what felt like hours, concentrating on the weight of the hand that gripped his own so tightly, and counting the space within breaths that slowed as the minutes passed. The tang of blood had dried in his nose long ago, no longer overpowering his senses with the rankness of fear, but still he kept watch. Nic’s soft snoring filled the room and warmed him the same way a cup of hot mint tea did, from the inside out. Chris waited a while more before he chanced a look, letting the small comforts lull his own central nervous system back into balance. 

Here was the largest and kindest of all his children, the most brilliant of scholars and bravest of men, snuggled peacefully in the scarred arms of the Lord Commander of the High Garda. Mouths open, both snoring slightly, one obviously sheltering the other from the pain of this world, if only for the night.

The strange feeling in his heart bubbled upward and spread, love like he hadn’t let himself feel before. Lying here, safe and warm beside his beloved, one of the finest minds in Alexandria sandwiched between them, Wolfe felt something that he didn’t feel often: hope. 

He leaned forward carefully, checking to see if either of them would risk waking up as he bent over to press his lips against Thomas’s forehead. 

“It does get better,” he whispered, although neither man was awake to hear him. “You will survive this.” Wolfe caressed the boy’s face and Thomas nuzzled his hand like a puppy. Even in sleep the boy was more of an innocent than Wolfe had ever been, and evil had tried to steal this peace from them. Evil had tried to keep Wolfe and Thomas from creating, from innovating, but even worse, evil had tried to separate and alienate them from their families, from the people who loved them without reservation, wholly and unstintingly. Evil had tried to root out all that was good and kind and fair and just and destroy it. But evil had not succeeded. Not here.

Wolfe lay back on his side of the bed and finally allowed his body to relax, the adrenaline trickling out of him in slow defiance. The reclaiming of his mind and wayward limbs was a process that he battled daily, with varied results. It was always most difficult at night when darkness seemed to have a stronger foothold and memories seemed richer, the line between reality and paranoia blurring smoky and grey.

But not tonight. Not here. Not in this bed. Wolfe was aware that he was rambling, that his thoughts had been rather circular for a while, but it didn’t bother him. Not when he let himself remember what they had been fighting for, what they had risked everything for, and who they had lost in the sacrifice. Not when Christopher Wolfe stopped for a moment, truly stopped, and let himself think about the man in his bed, the handsome, kind, loyal man who loved Chris more than life itself. Not when Chris thought of the five living children who simultaneously made his life a paroxysm of exasperation and unbridled joy. Not when Chris truly thought about what they had won. Yes, the price had been high, but he had been there in Morgan’s final moments. Wolfe had seen the Scholar that Morgan would have grown to become, the woman who had willingly laid down her life in defense of knowledge, given everything in the span of a breath, without regret. That sacrifice had not been in vain.

Wolfe allowed his eyes to drift shut, sleep dancing on the outskirts of his vision and tempting his reluctance to give in. Evil had not won the day. Love had triumphed here. Love lay between him and Nic, wrapped in bandages and Nic’s old shirt. Love would give them all the strength needed to face tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Wolfe smiled, and gave Thomas’s hand another squeeze.

After all, a broken bone heals twice as strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"It’s good to see you,” Thomas said, and his voice faltered. It sounded different now. Tears blurred his eyes. “Mein Gott, I thought - I never thought you’d really come. I didn’t think any of you knew. They told me…”_
> 
> _“They lie.” Wolfe’s voice sounded low and silky, dark as midnight. “It’s their favorite tactic-I know it well-to break your mind and your spirit. I’m sorry it took so long to get to you.”_
> 
> _Thomas closed his eyes and then opened them, and they’d taken on a blind, hard shine. “It isn’t an illusion, is it? You're here. This is real.”_
> 
> _“Yes. It’s real.”"_\-- Paper and Fire

**Author's Note:**

> _"Khalila turned to Thomas, hugged him impulsively, and said, “In bocca al Lupo, Thomas.” The mouth of the wolf. Always. “Crepi il Lupo,” he replied. He would, as always, face the wolf and defeat it. It was the call and response for the miracle and terror of the Translation Chamber, but it worked equally well here. He was going into danger, and going alone."_ \--Sword and Pen


End file.
